I, Partridge - Alan Partridge [71]
‘Is that right? Well, let’s see what the Director General has to say about this!’ I shouted and stormed out of the room to the end of the corridor.
A minute or two later, I found myself back at the meeting room, having forgotten that the corridor is a circle. Too tired to argue or stomp any more, I collected my satchel and jacket to the sound of embarrassed silence and left.
I knew then and there and then that this was the end of my relationship with BBC television. It was sad in a way. And so, before heading to the car park where my assistant and some sandwiches were waiting for me, I strolled back round the corridor – one last time. Ever the maverick, I went against the grain, meandering anti-clockwise through the corridors of laughing liberals. Then I bade the building good day and left.
People have suggested I bottled out of taking the BBC’s breach of contract to the highest court in the land. Others say that have heard whispers that there were ‘discrepancies’ with Chris’s page of the contract.
Neither is true. I’d just had enough. I could easily have seen out the contract, made a cool million and given them half a decade of my life. But I had bigger fish to fry. That day, I left the BBC, the BBC didn’t leave me.
So the BBC had reneged on my new TV deal in a way that shredded any remnants of honour or integrity they may have had. I had racked up substantial debt, and cash flow meant that I defaulted on the rental agreement of my London apartment and was asked to leave. I was homeless.
I’d only just left the Travel Tavern, and even though I could definitely have gone back to a warm welcome, £49 for room and breakfast was now out of my budget. I had nowhere to turn – and forlornly tramped the streets in my Rover 800.
Night was beginning to fall and, with a seriously heavy heart, I was about to drive to the modest bungalow my assistant shared with her racist mother … until I remembered something! A solemn promise, a vow that had been made to me more than three decades before. The words had been intoned by my (metaphorical) guardian angel Trevor Lambert. He’d looked into my seven-year-old eyes and made me a rock-solid pledge: ‘You can come and stay any time you like.’169
‘Hello?’
It was Sheila who answered the door, now a bit mumsy, like Fran had been. There was a raised inflection at the end of her greeting but these days you don’t know if that’s because it’s a question or because the speaker mistakenly thinks they’re cool.
Quite reasonably assuming it was the latter, I replied ‘Hello’ and kissed her on the cheek. She recoiled a little bit and then tried to shut the door on me. She made a kind of yelping noise, which is when Kenneth appeared. He looked older because he was 35 years older than he used to be.
‘Alan?’ he said. Again, I wasn’t sure about the question/cool thing. But this time I said, ‘Yes it’s me.’
He smiled a bit and put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her. (It could be that she had a poor memory for faces and didn’t have access to a television set, I thought.) She didn’t demur so he said, by way of explanation: ‘Alan Partridge!’
‘Ahaaaaaaaa!!’ I boomed and Sheila bolted down the hall.
I strode in and dropped my hold-all neatly to one side, before walking into the lounge and warmly greeting them all. They looked astonished – but then, it occurred to me, you would be. They’d not seen me since I was about 17! I’d not been in the house since I was seven!
Trevor’s asthma was now something to behold, and he had some of the most severe breathing difficulties I’ve ever shared a room with. He was rigged up to breathing apparatus with an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth and nose. The guy was still audible though and, when reminded who I was, politely asked, ‘What can we do for you?’
I reminded him of his invitation to come back and stay ‘any time’. At first I was embarrassed that he had no memory of it, but then I reasoned that he was old which explained why it might have slipped his mind. If not for that: awkwaaaaaard!!!!
My timing couldn’t have been more